The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(90)

I’m in a terrible mess. I’ve cried the frightened, body-racking sobs of a lost child. I crave the comfort of my mum’s arms and Elle’s everything’s-going-to-be-okay hug, but they’re oceans away. I came all this way to be with Freddie, but I’ve never felt more alone in my life.





Saturday 3 August


‘Take more water with you.’ Vita turns to the glass fridge behind her and pulls out a couple of bottles, pushing them across the counter to me. ‘Here.’

It’s relatively early on Saturday morning, just after seven, and Vita insisted that I take the day off. I’ve been here for almost two weeks now, and I haven’t taken another pill since that terrible trip back when I first arrived.

I’ve worked most days, by choice rather than demand. At first I did it just to get out of my head, but soon I realized there’s something freeing about tying the restaurant’s red apron around my body and picking up the notepad and pen – it beats any kind of paid therapy. I’ve toasted the blueness out of my skin on the beach for a couple of hours most mornings, and come lunchtime I’ve thrown on shorts and slicked on a little lip gloss to morph into Vita’s wing-woman. More often than not my evenings have ended chatting to Jonah on Skype, my feet propped up on the balcony and my eyes on the stars. It’s a simple, soul-nourishing routine. Clean and cathartic, as if by some miracle I’ve ended up exactly where I needed to be, in a safe place to hide from both my lives.

In quieter moments Vita and I have taken refuge inside from the heat, swapping stories and photographs. I’ve seen her on the day she married Petar eight years previously, a man of few words but good heart. I know she’s one of six siblings, aunt to more than ten, and that she and Petar long for a child of their own. In turn she’s heard news of Elle and the new baby, seen photos of my folks, and is vaguely aware that I do organizational things in my local town hall. I’m sure she’s also aware that there are elephant-sized chunks of my life I haven’t been able to share yet, and I greatly appreciate that she hasn’t asked. Truth be told, I’ve got a bit of a hero-worship-style crush on her. What I wouldn’t give for even half her serenity; she radiates quiet strength and good humour in a way that makes her addictive company to me. She seems to run the restaurant with little more than the occasional flick of her fingers and a smile. I expect she could run the country in the same way if she was of a mind. Lucky Petar and, for a little while, lucky me.

‘You remember the way?’

I nod. ‘Think so.’

I’m going to see some of the local sights, taking Vita’s moped to save the walk. I don’t think I’d have ridden one myself if I’d come here with Freddie, he’d have picked the biggest thing going and asked for a second helmet for me. It’s kind of liberating travelling under my own steam like one of the locals. People here have already become accustomed to me, greeting me by name thanks to my status as one of Vita’s friends.

‘It’s a straight road,’ she says. ‘Don’t hurry yourself back.’

I roll my eyes. It’s Saturday so bound to be extra busy around here and I don’t especially feel the need to take the time out.

‘And don’t grumble,’ she smiles. ‘It spoils your lovely face. You have to see the tourist sights while you’re here.’

‘You sound like my mum.’

‘In that case, your mother is a very wise woman.’ She reaches under the desk for the moped key. ‘It has enough fuel if you want to explore.’

‘I’ll be back soon. Before lunch.’

‘Don’t be.’

We lock eyes and then laugh as I swing my backpack over my shoulders. She follows me out to the moped and puts a paper bag in the basket on the front. I spy the end of a baguette poking out.

‘Your lunch,’ she says, unsubtle.

I swing my leg over the moped and fasten the helmet beneath my chin.

‘See you in a while,’ I say.

Vita nods, her arms folded across her chest. ‘I’ll be here.’

I’m not religious, but at Vita’s suggestion I find myself parking up at the Shrine of Vepric on the outskirts of the town. It’s early enough to still be quiet here, intensifying the volume of the crickets and the pervading sense of peace. The shrine is nestled at the base of a wooded hill. Croatia seems to have been created from a paintbox of vibrant turquoise and verdant green, never more so than here as I climb the wide stone steps towards the shrine. A couple of other people mill around, as quiet in their observation as I am in mine.

Wooden benches fill the space in front of the shrine. Right now they stand empty, so I lower myself on to the front pew for a few minutes and breathe.

A stone altar sits inside the cave-like natural shrine, and a delicately painted statue of the Virgin Mary presides from an alcove set high into one of the walls. It really is spectacularly peaceful. I drink in the silence and let my eyes wander over the scene, and after a little while a woman comes and takes the next pew along. She bows her head, twisting dark beads around her fingers as she prays. I’ve had moments since the accident when I fervently wished I believed in God or some higher purpose; it must bring comfort to feel that the pieces are moved around down here for some greater reason. I don’t hold any such beliefs but that doesn’t mean I can’t draw solace from a place like this. People believe this shrine heals. Can it mend broken hearts too?